


you're spring to me (all things to me)

by DoctorSyntax



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Idiots in Love, No Beta We Die Like Beric Dondarrion, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-15 00:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29551020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: What's west of Westeros?Something they weren't looking for, if Bran is to be believed.(or: five times someone wondered about Arya and Podrick, and one time they just asked.)
Relationships: Podrick Payne/Arya Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	you're spring to me (all things to me)

**Author's Note:**

> The verse of "Seasons of My Love" that Pod sings is taken from the books, but since that's all we have of the song so far, I made up the 'missing line' and the verse that Tom sings.
> 
> Title from David Bowie's "Wild is the Wind".

I.

Bronn is already waiting in the small council chambers when everyone else begins arriving. Bringing up the rear is Pod— _Ser_ Pod, now—escorting the king. But when Pod tries to step back to a respectful position behind the king, Bran motions for him to take the seat at his right hand.

Bemused, but ever the good lad, Pod obeys.

“Ser Podrick, my first order of business is to discuss your position in this administration.”

Pod only looks vaguely terrified, which means he’s come a long way. Maybe the fact that he’s an anointed knight is finally starting to sink in. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Ser Brienne has indicated that she would like to appoint you to the Kingsguard,” Bran continues.

Bronn winces, just slightly. A vow of celibacy is a terrible burden to place on a man with Pod’s natural skill set, practically an affront to the gods who gifted him—Bronn sends up a sad prayer for the women of King’s Landing.

“Yes, your Grace.”

“However, I would like to see you serve the realm in another way.”

Bronn glances at Brienne—she looks surprised, and not pleased. The first small council fight of the new era, he thinks with a small thrill, and sits up a little straighter.

Brienne disappoints him by saying nothing. Pod, for his part, only asks,

“And how would that be, your Grace?”

“As you may already know, Princess Arya of the North is leaving tomorrow on a sailing expedition expected to last several years. I ask that you accompany her.”

Pod sways in his seat, visibly taken aback. “M-me, your Grace? Forgive me, but I have never met someone less in need of protection than Princess Arya.”

“My sister has no talent for diplomacy,” Bran says, and the words would be called blunt if he didn’t deliver them in that placid, matter-of-fact way. “But I suspect you do. I’m asking you to represent the realm, wherever you may find yourself on the voyage.”

Young Pod looks at least as dazed as Bronn feels. “I would be honored, your Grace.”

“Good.” Bran almost smiles. “You are excused. Spend the day packing and settling your affairs. Queen Sansa will bring you the timetable later, and you’ll escort her to the docks so she can say goodbye to our sister. Report to me before you leave the city.”

Bronn watches as the knight gets up hastily, chair scraping on the stones, and makes a deep bow before the king. There’s a stunned silence among the small council as Pod leaves the room. Brienne, in particular, looks like she has no idea how to process what just happened.

“So there’s something out there, then,” Bronn says, to break the silence.

Bran looks at him, gaze a bit unnerving. “What?”

“You said ‘represent the realm wherever you find yourself’. You must already know they’ll find something.”

Bran returns to staring straight ahead. “Yes, they will find something. But it won’t be what they’re looking for.”

And there’s a note in Bran’s voice—just a _hint_ , you know—that makes him wonder. But... no. A king wouldn’t do something like that. Still, Bronn makes a mental note to get Pod shitfaced when the ship returns, and see if he got up to anything interesting with the unladylike Lady Stark.

“Your Grace, will they be in danger?” Brienne asks, voice tight. Bronn’s very aware she feels a personal responsibility to protect the Stark girls—she won’t shut up about it—and she’s hilariously fond of her former squire, considering how much she bitched about taking him on. “I can go with them, please, I _offer_ —”

“No, Ser Brienne,” Bran interrupts serenely. “I will need you here.”

II.

Lhara tosses and turns in her hammock. The shift change is always difficult to get used to; her body wants to be awake now, for it’s nearly dawn. She knows she should remain in bed, but after a few moments she quietly leaves the women’s barracks and makes her way topside, hoping some fresh air will help her sleep.

As she nears the top of the steps, she hears singing and pauses, so as not to cause a commotion and spoil the song. Princess Arya and her brother’s knight, Ser Pod, are on night duty now, she recalls. He has a lovely voice, and always willing to entertain. He and Tom, who has an even finer voice, have been singing now more than ever—six months into the journey and they haven’t spotted so much as a sandbar. The crew is starting to grow restless. The princess must be bored to tears, for there is never anything to do overnights, and not much to see on the horizon.

_I loved a maid as fair as summer,_   
_with sunlight in her hair_   
_I loved a maid as red as autumn,_   
_with sunset in her hair_   
_I loved a maid as white as winter,_   
_with moonglow in her hair_

Sure enough, Arya and Pod are leaning against the starboard railing, just a couple inches apart, staring off into the empty distance of the seemingly endless Summer Sea.

“That’s a pretty song.” Arya’s voice breaks the silence in a gentle tone Lhara’s never heard from her.

When he answers, Pod sounds like he’s a million miles away—in memory if not in body. “Your sister liked it, too. I used to sing it to her when…”

“When…?” Arya prompts.

Lhara doesn’t want to disturb them, but belowstairs is stuffy, so she perches on the top step and tries to politely ignore them. It’s impossible not to overhear their conversation, however; the night is windless and calm. Moreover, the pair believe they’re alone, save Deaf Geramy in the crow’s nest, and aren’t much taking pains to hush their voices.

“When we were traveling to the Wall,” Pod says, and is it just Lhara’s imagination, or does he sound _sad_ , of all things? “She was so quiet, and jumped at every noise—I used to ride beside her and sing when she was particularly anxious, to keep her distracted. It was easier than trying to think of things to talk to her about.”

After a pause, Arya asks, “Do you love her?”

The question feels very loud in the quiet dawn.

“I… couldn’t possibly,” Pod says, slowly, as if he’s never really considered the question before. “She’s very pretty, of course, and I am proud to have helped Ser Brienne protect her, but she was a lady, and now she’s a queen. I could never have known her well enough to fall for her. Love isn’t that shallow.”

Lhara gives up pretending she doesn’t want to hear, and turns her face to them once again. Pod’s so reserved and polite—but if these are the kinds of things he contributes to a conversation with friends, it’s time to make an effort to get him to interact with the crew in other ways than just singing on demand.

“So the Red Wolf isn’t your maid of autumn.”

“Not mine, no,” Pod says. “Anyway, I always thought… if I ever got to choose, that is… I’d want to love a maid of spring.”

She must have missed that verse, because she doesn’t get the significance when Arya looks over at him, sharply. But then again… maybe it wasn’t about the song at all. Princess Arya is just about the age to have been born at the end of last winter.

Now isn’t that a thought.

“Is that what you call your ladies in the brothel?”

The question seems to surprise Pod as much as it does Lhara, but perhaps for different reasons. Quiet Ser Pod never struck her as the type to visit such places, but Arya seemed confident in her statement—and, after all, it takes all sorts to make a world.

Pod furrows his brow, but doesn’t protest beyond quietly saying, as if Arya’s hurt him, “That’s not love either. Not all on its own.”

“Gendry said he loved me after I fucked him.” Arya tosses the words out like they’re a poison she must expurgate—Lhara has to wonder who this Gendry is, how fresh of a wound. Some gallant second son of a fancy lord, she supposes, as befits the Princess of Winterfell. But the Princess of Winterfell is on a ship in the middle of nowhere, and brought along with her only Ser Podrick and the scarred, angry Sandor Clegane.

Perhaps one day Arya would tell her how that came to be.

“I know.”

Lhara’s surprise is mirrored in Arya’s response. “You do?”

After a long moment Pod answers in a hushed, almost apologetic tone. “Everyone knows.”

Unexpectedly, Arya laughs. “News travels so fast in that castle.” Then, as quickly as her amusement came, it disappears, her voice turning vulnerable once more. “You knew him, Pod.”

“A little, perhaps.”

“Do you think he meant what he said when he proposed? I hope… I hope he was mistaken.”

Total silence stretches between them for a moment, and the only sound Lhara can hear is the the ocean lapping against the hull. “Is it so awful to imagine someone could love you like that?”

There’s a tension in his voice, some strained quality, that brings Lhara to her senses.

She doesn’t hear Arya’s answer as she quietly slips back down the stairs. Gods above—she never intended to spy on the pair, but she let herself get carried away by the tentative connection blossoming before her. Really, though, it isn’t her business at all.

*

That afternoon, in the galley, Lhara is helping Tom prepare dinner. Wrist-deep in potato peelings, he’s humming a tune under his breath, and she realizes—there is _one_ gap she could fill in from yesterday, without feeling like the sea’s nosiest snoop.

“You Westerosi have a song,” she begins casually, twisting the leafy top off a bunch of carrots. “I loved a maid… something something… spring, it starts?”

Tom nods. “I know the one—I loved a maid as _brown_ as spring, with daybreak in her hair. But that’s the start of the last verse.”

“There are others?”

“Oh, sure. That one’s just about the hair. It starts with the eyes, you know, women always like compliments about their eyes.” Quite without her asking, he begins singing, his rich tenor filling the small space.

 _I kissed a maid as lush as spring,  
_ _grey thawing in her eyes_  
 _I kissed a maid as warm as summer,_  
 _green growing in her eyes_  
 _I kissed a maid as crisp as autumn,_  
 _brown harvest in her eyes_  
 _I kissed a maid as calm as winter,_  
 _blue patience in her eyes_

Too late Lhara notices Arya walking by. She stops in her tracks when she hears the song, looking questioningly over at them, and when her grey eyes meet Lhara’s brown—

Oh. So the wolf princess _can_ blush.

III.

As a veteran of more than thirty voyages with mixed-gender crews, Captain Evin Farrest is no stranger to the noise of two (or more—he doesn’t moralize) of his crew sneaking off for a stolen moment of indulgence. It’s been happening more of late, which is only natural since they’ve now passed twelve full moons on this sea, and still no sign of land or life. Even the birds are gone from the skies now. So on an evening when he’d left his quarters rather late after the supper bell had rung, he’s not startled by the odd bangs and rattling coming from the little room where the long-term food supplies are stored.

He is, however, a little surprised by the name the woman gasps out as he passes the door. It _sounds_ like ‘Pod’—as in, presumably, their resident knight.

Somehow, he hadn’t expected dinnertime trysts in the pantry from Pod; not when, by all observations, he was completely smitten with the little wolf princess. The way Ser Pod looked at her when she wasn’t watching was enough to revive a grizzled old sea captain’s belief in love, and he finds himself almost disappointed by the notion that the lad might be laying with someone else while he pines away for Arya.

It’s the only reason he pauses instead of minding his own business and leaving them to it.

“Shhh,” another voice—and it does sound something like Pod’s—says. “Trying to get us caught, princess?”

Three things happen at once. One—Evin’s eyebrows shoot up into his receding hairline. Two—a muffled banging sound comes from the room. Three—the woman lets out a moan they probably heard on deck.

Hells, they probably heard it back home in _Dorne_.

“Ah, _fuck,_ love. You want someone to come in here? See how their princess loves spreading her legs like a common whore?”

Seven _hells_. Now he’s fairly certain it’s Arya in there, but—is that really gentle Ser Pod? The young man looks like he’s never said harsh word to anyone. Moreover, he’s always among the quietest whenever the conversation turns to women.

But it’s always the quiet ones, in his long and varied experience. And come to think of it, when a couple of lads made a comment about the princess a few weeks ago, Pod was quick to shut them down. At the time he’d thought it was loyalty, since Pod was sworn to Arya’s brother, but now…

Another _bang_ comes from the room, and a pleased sort of yelp, and that’s Evin’s cue to leave, really.

On deck he scans the crew crowded around the tables, not seeing Arya or Pod. Could be a coincidence, so after filling his plate he drops down next to Clegane, who always swears up and down he’s not Arya’s keeper but _also_ always knows exactly where she is.

“Wolf princess not hungry tonight?” he asks in the most casual tone he can muster.

Lhara, sitting across the table, exchanges a meaningful glance with Clegane. Neither of them answer for a minute, then:

“Think she’s giving Ser Pod a hand with something,” Lhara says, with studied nonchalance.

Clegane snorts. “More than a hand,” he mutters, looking revolted.

Evin nods to himself, satisfied with the conclusions he’s drawn. _Ah, young love_ , he thinks. So sweet. So… robust. So _incredibly_ debauched.

IV.

It’s strange to be back on land after three years; stranger still to be back in Westeros. Strangest of all… Sandor hadn’t ever expected to find himself in the North again. But here he is—by royal decree, no less.

Arya had sent her sister a raven when the ship had landed in Ibben the prior moon, and a reply was waiting when they made port again in Braavos. A request (a demand, really, but phrased in that flowery diplomatic language the little bird loved) that the ship dock next in White Harbor and Arya return to Winterfell from there, instead of accompanying the rest of the crew down to King’s Landing.

She had also included an invitation (non-negotiable) to Sandor and Podrick, and an offer of hospitality (genuine) to any other crew member interested in ending their long expedition with a trip through the North. Only a handful plan to take her up on it, but they’ve been taking any excuse to get off the ship, these days, and a docking in Westeros certainly qualified—so everyone’s ashore for the night.

They’re the loudest party by far in the crowded inn, and most of them are well into their cups. But Sandor’s not paying much attention to the conversation until two of the men start speculating about the beauty of Queen Sansa.

It quickly devolves into the kind of talk that could get men murdered, if they make it in front of the wrong person, and while Sandor is certainly the wrong person, he also knows two things. One—if he says a word, the ensuing argument will turn into a full-out brawl, one that he _will_ win. Two—the little bird would have his head if she got word of him killing someone just for drunkenly speculating if she howls in bed like her sister. So he gets up roughly from the table instead. The men are only daring to make such comments about the Queen because the wolf-girl isn’t here. He fixes that, he fixes the problem.

There. Diplomacy. He’s the picture of self-restraint.

Not seeing her in the common room, he begins climbing the steps toward the sleeping quarters. On the landing, though, he is waylaid by Captain Farrest, looking strangely troubled.

“Just coming to find you, Clegane,” Farrest says. “Our princess is making a very unladylike ruckus down the hall.”

Sandor scowls, because he’s not interested in listening to her shriek and moan and make all the other obscene noises that young Ser Podrick somehow draws out of her. He’d had enough of that on the bloody boat. He’s known them both since they were practically children, for fuck’s sake. “I’m not the royal babysitter.”

“No, but you’re the one she’s least likely to murder for interrupting. And make no mistake, she needs interrupting.”

Sighing with annoyance, he brushes past Farrest, listening for whatever an ‘unladylike ruckus’ sounds like. He hears it coming from the last door on the left.

“—thought you were different!” Arya’s yelling, as if she isn’t too old to throw a tantrum. “I’ll not be caged, Pod!”

“Arya, it’s not like that,” he hears Podrick saying, voice wretched and pleading, and—oh. The idiot boy actually went and did it. The entire crew has been taking bets on when this would happen. Sandor’s about to become a very rich man, seeing as he was the only one on the entire boat who said she’d turn him down. Bunch of soft romantics, this crew.

He knows the she-wolf.

Still, he almost finds himself feeling sorry for the dumb lad. She isn’t going easy on him. If rumors can be believed, she’d been lot nicer to that bastard lord. But she hadn’t been fucking _him_ for two years, Sandor’s certain of that.

“I have nothing to cage you _with_. I have no lands, no money, no title except _Ser_. I have nothing to offer exce—”

“I don’t want to hear it! I can’t _believe_ —”

“You should go,” Podrick interrupts, quite clearly. Voice steady. Good for him.

That stops her. “What?”

Podrick takes a deep breath. Sandor mentally wills for him not to lose the backbone he’s unearthed; Arya can use some pushback sometimes. “With respect, your Grace, please leave my room. I apologize for forgetting my place. You can be assured it will not happen again.”

So… not _quite_ what he’d been expecting, but it sounds like it’s done the trick. Arya isn’t saying anything, and doesn’t for a long minute. Maybe he should knock, after all, really underline that the conversation is over. Put all three of them out of their fucking misery.

He doesn’t get the chance—the door almost smacks him in the face as Arya storms out. Her hair’s a mess and her shirt’s not tucked in, and she shoots him a glare so fierce he wonders if she’s restarted her little list, just to put him back on it for witnessing the tears she’s barely keeping in check.

He glances into the room, where Podrick’s sitting on the bed with his head buried in his hands, clearly wearing nothing under the bedclothes, looking just… absolutely miserable. Sandor wonders if he planned to do it like this, the first night they were back in the North, or if it just burst out of him in an unguarded moment. He’s been walking around moonstruck for most of the voyage, after all, and three years is a long time.

No matter—what’s done is done. Best let the kid have what’s left of his dignity, Sandor thinks, pushing the door shut. Not that it’ll stop him from heading downstairs to collect on those wagers. Those fuckers owing him money is a far more appealing conversation than whether or not the Red Wolf of the North has red hair _everywhere_.

And if it means everyone can get their shock out of the way before the heartbroken idiot of a knight has to show his face in the morning for the journey up to Winterfell, so much the better.

Those Stark girls… they sure know how to get under a man’s skin.

V.

Returning to the evening meal after an urgent raven had called her away, Sansa contemplates her choices. She could go back to the head table, of course, but Arya is the only one left there, and she’s been poor company since her party arrived in the early afternoon. All through dinner she sat, hardly speaking at all, mostly staring blankly in the direction of the table where Sandor, Podrick, and the few sailors that accompanied them up from White Harbor were all seated.

She sees now that the table seats only Sandor and Podrick, both of whom she feels at ease around. And, since they are bound to be livelier than Arya at the moment, her choice is clear.

“Ser Podrick,” Sansa says, as she slides into the empty seat across from him. “I am sorry we have not yet had a chance to speak. How was your journey?” He’d been quieter than usual upon the party’s arrival in Winterfell, but it was a long sea voyage followed immediately by several days’ ride in the snow, so she had assumed he was just travel-weary. Seeing him now, though, she is less sure of the cause. He’s always greeted her with some sort of smile, but tonight he does not.

“Uneventful, your Grace,” he answers politely, and doesn’t seem like he’s going to say another word.

“Oh?” she prompts with a smile. “I hardly know if that is good or bad.”

Pod frowns, looking down at his plate of food, as if he’s thinking hard. “It just is, your Grace.” He doesn’t look back up.

Gamely, she tries one more time. “Perhaps you would like to discuss your future plans? I have not forgotten the promise I made you before you sailed.”

After a long pause, Pod shakes his head. “Perhaps tomorrow, your Grace. Please excuse me, I am more tired than I realized.” He doesn’t actually wait to be excused before he stands, which is not _precisely_ rude, but it’s unlike him enough that it worries her.

Puzzled, Sansa looks to Sandor for an answer.

Sandor jerks his head in the general direction of the head table. Arya’s gaze is tracking Pod as he leaves the hall, and for the first time all evening Sansa realizes she wasn’t simply staring _through_ her travel companions. She was staring _at_ them—specifically, at Pod.

Oh, dear.

“Please excuse me,” Sansa says, rising. “I find that I have some urgent business to attend to.” Sandor doesn’t care about her courtesies, but maybe that’s why she always falls back on them when they speak. He’s worthy of them, if nothing else.

At the table, she grasps Arya’s arm firmly and pulls her from her seat. “We’re going for a walk, dear sister.”

“I’m tired.” The response is automatic, lacking in substance, and worrisome in its own right.

“I don’t care,” Sansa says bluntly, linking their arms together and moving purposefully toward the door. Arya allows Sansa to lead her through the castle and out into the glass gardens, where Sansa seats them on a workbench.

“Now, what happened?” Sansa asks. She’s half-joking when she says, “Did you break _his_ heart too?”

But as soon as the words leave her lips, she knows that’s exactly what happened. Still, Sansa expects only sullen denial in response. _I don’t know who you mean_ , perhaps, or if Arya’s feeling particularly restive, _I’ve never broken any hearts_.

But Arya just looks away and says, “Maybe.” Then, suddenly, she faces Sansa again. Her voice is almost accusatory as she says, “You were literally a prisoner in both your marriages.”

While Sansa might not have framed her first marriage in those terms, and the quality of her confinement had varied drastically from her marriage to Ramsay, Arya is technically correct. At the moment, Sansa is far more interested in finding out what in the seven hells is going on than she is interested in defending Tyrion Lannister’s honor.

“Yes.”

“And yet you married again.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Arya sounds like she cannot comprehend. “You’re the Queen. Nobody can make you do anything.”

Considering Arya rebelled all her life against being a lady, Sansa is very sure her sister knows that’s not true. She is still bound in many ways by convention, and sometimes does things she does not want to do in the name of duty, but she gets the thrust of the point. She used to have no choices, only consequences. Now, at least, she has both.

Sansa tries to make it simple for her. “Because I love him. I _chose_ him, Arya. I’ve never chosen my husband before. It was always going to be different.”

“Robert and Cersei _hated_ each other.”

“Mother and Father were happy together,” she counters.

“Not perfectly. There was Jon, after all.”

Arya’s never once allowed anyone to blame Jon for the undercurrent of tension in their parents’ marriage, and the fact that she’s even coming this close now gives Sansa pause.

If Arya’s harping on marriage, and the misery of confinement—

Oh, sweet Pod. Sweet, foolish Pod. Sansa would bet her crown the proposal spilled out of him, words jumbled and unexpected and scaring her skittish sister half to death. She shouldn’t interfere, she knows, but it’s her duty as a big sister to boss Arya around sometimes, and Pod literally helped save her life. She owes him a great deal, and he’s refused every attempt she’s ever made to repay him.

The very least she can do is make sure Arya is really, _truly_ confident in her decision.

Carefully she says, “I know Gendry’s offer, heartfelt though it was, came with obligations you never wanted to fulfill. And I think you were right to turn him down, even if it hurt you both. But that doesn’t mean all offers will be like his.” She glances at Arya, who does not look mutinous, so she feels it’s safe to continue. “If you will allow a piece of unsolicited advice… make sure you know what’s being asked of you before you refuse.”

They sit quietly for a moment, and Sansa decides—enough. Enough for tonight. She’s planted the seed, and now it’s time to let Arya tend it. She makes to stand, resolving to reschedule her meeting with Pod tomorrow to give all of them some time.

Arya stops her with a hand on her arm. “Thanks,” she says, taking a deep breath. And then: “I missed you,” Arya admits, as if all her other secrets want to spill out to protect the one they’d just been tiptoeing around. “I missed Winterfell so much, and it never occurred to me to wonder what it would be like if we found nothing, and I wasted three _entire_ years of my life for a handful of uninhabited volcanic islands. It wasn’t worth it. I missed the only wedding you ever wanted to have, and Osric’s birth, and gods, what did I expect? I don’t ever want to do anything like that again.” She falters, then, and looks away. “But I don’t want to stay in one place forever, either.”

Sansa never wants to be out of contact with Arya for three years again. She’s had the entire voyage to prepare her arguments—but now that Arya’s given her an opportunity to present them, all her words dry up in the face of her baby sister looking lost and a little scared. “So don’t _go_ on another ocean voyage,” she says, finally. “Travel north and visit Jon. Go to Essos and ride across the Great Grass Sea. Go to Skagos and collect their back taxes, _please_.”

Arya makes a soft noise that’s almost a laugh.

“Stay within reach of a raven and come home as often as you want or need. We’ll always be here.”

Arya squeezes her forearm. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are telling me to travel the world alone.”

Sansa wrinkles her nose. “I never said _anything_ about that. I do not condone you traveling alone; remember what Dad always said about the lone wolf? Take your pack.”

“You’re my pack.”

 _Gods_ , Sansa has missed her fierce little sister. “I was talking about Sandor and Pod.”

“Pod has to stay in King’s Landing,” Arya says quickly.

“Since when?”

Sansa has _not_ missed the look Arya’s giving her, like she’s a colossal moron. “Since he swore an oath to Bran…?”

Gods be good, could this be as simple as a misunderstanding? “Bran didn’t let him swear any oaths beyond his responsibilities on the ship. Didn’t you know?”

“How do _you_ know?”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Because I was with Pod when he reported to Bran before leaving. He escorted me to the ship to send you off, remember? Bran told him there wouldn’t be a position for him when the ship returned and advised him to make other plans.”

“Why would Bran do something like that?”

“I don’t know,” Sansa says, because she _doesn’t_. It was strangely callous and just another reminder that Bran was not entirely their baby brother anymore. She’s starting to wonder, though… “Pod, as you can guess, felt pretty badly about it, but I told him he had the entire voyage to think about what he was going to do, and if he still didn’t know to come to Winterfell and I would— _ow_! Arya, let go!”

Arya’s sharp nails retract from Sansa’s arm, but her eyes are searching Sansa’s, expression balanced on the precipice of hope and fear. “Did he swear himself to you tonight?” Arya demands.

“He asked to speak with me in the morning,” Sansa says slowly, choosing the most worrisome way to present the truth, hoping Arya might actually _do_ something before she talked herself out of it. “He seemed as if he had formed no other plans, so I am hopeful that by this time tomorrow he will be in my service.” She toys with the idea of adding _I can think of nothing I would like more_ , but that seems perhaps a bit too much. There is another outcome she would much rather prefer.

Arya shocks her, then, by embracing her soundly. “I have to go.”

“Right now?” Sansa asks, feigning innocent disappointment. But inside her hope is blooming.

“Right now.”

I.

“What do I call you now?” Brienne asks, as she approaches the head table, because Pod is the one who will know. Tyrion filled his mind with houses, titles, faces: everything a diplomat knight could need. She didn’t appreciate it much when they were traveling together, but it’s a gap she’s become _very_ aware of with the inexperienced Kingsguard, and one she’d been hoping to convince him to fill when he returned.

Obviously, that won’t be happening.

Pod scrunches his face up in that familiar way that says he’s trying to recall a nuanced fact. “Prince Consort, I think, is _technically_ my title now. Men here have to be at least a knight to be a Consort, but since I was knighted in the Six Kingdoms and not the North that leaves things open to interpretation… but it’s what Sansa has referred to me as, whenever the subject came up, so I doubt it’ll be much contested. Arya formally refused her place in the line of succession yesterday and Sansa consented, so there’s no way I’ll ever become _King_ Consort, and that’s all the lords really care about.”

Gods. She really does not have a head for politics, and the noise of the feast isn’t making it any easier for her to concentrate. “Well, in that case—congratulations, Prince Consort Podrick.”

He laughs. “That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”

“Awful,” she agrees, sitting in the vacated seat beside him. It’s just him up here at the moment, so she feels like it’s okay. He outranks her now—Pod! Her bumbling squire who didn’t even know how to skin a rabbit!—but she doubts he expects any of those deferential courtesies from her. Some relationships transcend such things, and this is one of them.

“You’re supposed to drop ‘Consort’ if you’re addressing me directly,” he muses, “but I don’t think _Prince Podrick_ sounds any better, really. I don’t mind if you keep calling me Pod. I think I’d prefer it. Arya’s been teasing me every chance she gets.”

“Payback for all those ‘my Ladys’ and ‘your Graces’, I suppose,” Brienne says dryly.

He makes a noise of assent, and they fall into a comfortable silence. They used to spend hours like this around campfires and on horseback, conversation washing in and out like the tides. It’s been more than three years since she hastily said goodbye to him, but some things never change.

“Thank you,” he says suddenly. His eyes are tracing Arya’s progress across the dance floor with Tormund, who is dancing much too exuberantly for the time signature of the music, but they’re laughing and spinning and carefree in a way Brienne rarely is—a way she is, occasionally, envious of. “For all the times you saved my life. If I never said it before, let me say it now.”

An unexpected swell of emotion rises in her. “You’re welcome,” she says, because she knows what he’s implying. If she hadn’t kept him with her all those years ago, he wouldn’t be here, now, at his wedding feast. She’s so _glad_ she didn’t turn him away—he’s been a loyal squire and friend through some of her most difficult and trying times, and watching him grow into a man has been one of the greatest pleasures of her life.

“You were the best squire I ever had… and the worst,” she adds, considering some of his more egregious missteps. Her fight with the Hound springs to mind. “I’m glad she didn’t escape from you a second time.”

Pod isn’t embarrassed by the joke at all. Rather, a small smile graces his lips as he admits, “Me too.”

The conversation lulls again and neither of them bother to revive it, instead choosing to look out on the festivities. Brienne catches sight of the young lord of Storm’s End, Gendry, speaking with Arya in the far corner of the room. He’s grinning at something Arya said, and Brienne remembers—there had been some kind of attachment there once, hadn’t there? The whole castle had been abuzz: lord for only an hour and he’d already been seen kissing and proposing to Lady Arya. Not to mention the more scandalous rumors about what had happened before the Battle of Winterfell.

But Arya hadn’t married _him_.

Arya gives the man a hug and a grateful smile before walking away, and Brienne’s curiosity gets the better of her. “Pod, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Ser.”

“How…” She tries to think of a way to phrase it that doesn’t sound absolutely incredulous, but nothing comes to mind, so she plows ahead. “How did you get _Arya Stark_ to fall in love with you, much less agree to marry you?”

He shrugs. “I wish I knew.” His modesty would grate if Brienne thought it was false, but the honest truth is he probably _doesn’t_ know.

“I can tell you that one,” Arya says, appearing between the two of them—how did she do that? Didn’t Brienne just see her, not five seconds ago, on the other side of the hall?—looking both comfortable and beautiful in her formal tunic and breeches. The intricate embroidery on the garments is probably Sansa’s doing, as is no doubt the delicate silver diadem resting in her hair, but Arya looks at ease in them, like she’s finally found a way to reconcile the things she wants and the obligations she was born into.

“Oh?”

Arya’s flushed from dancing, eyes bright—smile brighter. “Yeah. He never wanted to tame me.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Pod asks, and Arya radiates happiness as she leans down, kissing him deeply and unselfconsciously in front of the entire party.

“Exactly.”


End file.
